lined it up empty on the runway for takeoff before they fueled it. Some paint, welding equipment, and a load of Jet A fuel, and they were in business. Oh, yes. And one big mother of a bomb.
With the calculator running in his brain like the tape from an adding machine, Thorn already knew that the costs were going to climb faster and higher than the plane could fly. It was little wonder that no one had ever tried this before. Thorn hoped his employer’s pockets were deep enough, because the good old days of hijacking somebody else’s plane and flying it into a building were over.
Thorn headed for his car knowing that he’d done a good day’s work. Halfway there, the new BlackBerry on his belt began to vibrate. The new phone was becoming a pain in the ass. He had purchased it along with a data service plan under a two-year contract using a phony name, a bad billing address, and a stolen credit card. All he wanted to do was see how the thing worked.
It vibrated again. He knew it wasn’t a phone call. Those rang. It was either an e-mail or something from the World Wide Web. Probably another ad from the phone company. It was reaching the point that Thorn wasn’t sure if he would even wait until the end of the thirty-day billing cycle to drop the thing in a Dumpster. He couldn’t sleep at night because it kept vibrating all over the nightstand next to him. And if he turned off the vibrator, it would beep instead. How to turn that off, he wasn’t sure. The phone required an advanced degree in computer engineering before you could operate it. It was no joke that they’d offered him a two-day course over a weekend, and Thorn had just laughed. That was before he started losing sleep.
It vibrated again. He ripped the thing from the holster and tried to work the tiny roller ball with his big thumb. Thorn was spitting four-letter expletives, looking at the screen as he tried not to trip over the weeds.
It was an e-mail from Soyev. He was on his way back from North Korea, holding over in Hong Kong: “Big brother in the bag.” What it meant was that the Russian had closed the deal on a replacement for the mammoth blockbuster they’d lost in Thailand. This one would ship by sea and not from North Korea, where the Americans would be watching. Other arrangements were being made.
There was a postscript: “You will be interested in the attached.”
He almost put the phone away, figuring he would read it later. Then curiosity got the better of him. He stopped in the field for a moment and worked the trackball to call up the attachment.
It was a news article, something from the Washington Post. The moment he saw her name, he knew it was trouble. Thorn had been watching Joselyn Cole from the sidelines for years, ever since he’d tangled with her in Seattle.
She had very nearly run him into a hole in East Africa, exhorting the feds to hunt him down. Not that they needed much encouragement. Now she was causing problems again. Cole was a busybody. She was testifying before a Senate committee. But it was her words quoted in the story that sent a chill up Thorn’s spine, the reason the Russian had sent it to him.
The hellfire missile you use today to kill a carload of accused terrorists on a dusty road in Afghanistan may, in time, find its way into the hands of their children. What do we do then when this same relentless, unerring weapon is aimed at the West Wing or Ten Downing Street?
She was talking about precision-guided weapons. It made the hair on the back of Thorn’s neck stand up.
These systems, originally designed and sold on the notion of avoiding collateral damage, have now become the weapon of choice for acts of very precise mass assassination. Think about that. We reap what we sow. A laser- guided missile can kill with more lethality and certainty than a bullet fired by a sniper. Why? Because it can reach its target in an enclosed vehicle or a building where the victim suffers from the illusion of security.
He should have killed her in Seattle, thought Thorn.
Make no mistake about it. Soon there will be no place left for leaders of any stripe to hide.
It was intended to get their attention, and it did. Standing in the empty field, rolling the little trackball, Thorn devoured the rest of the story. She took a few shots from the right, members who asked if she was equating Al Qaeda to leaders of recognized political states.
She told them they were missing the point.
For the most part the committee got the message. They wanted to know what they could do to ensure that this wouldn’t happen, that someone wouldn’t get their hands on these weapons and target their sorry asses.
Without even realizing it, Cole was directing the spotlight just where Thorn didn’t need it, and at the worst possible time.
Of course, the bitch had a long list of recommendations, all of them designed to tighten the screws on the tools of Thorn’s trade. To make it more difficult to get the weapons he needed. Not that she would ever be able to shut down the market. But she could surely make it expensive.
If she continued to whip this horse, he would have to find a way to shut her up. It would be just Thorn’s luck if she stumbled into his party and somehow unraveled it all before he could move.
TWENTY-TWO
So then I take it we’re all agreed?” The four of us are seated around the kitchen table at our house in Coronado.
“I don’t see that we have any other choice,” says Harry.
Herman nods. “I agree.” Three days since they found Jenny’s body and we’re all running on empty from lack of sleep.
“Well, I don’t,” says Sarah. “I don’t like it. Besides, you’re only doing this because of me. Why should we let him chase us out of our home?”
“We don’t move, we’re just playin’ into his hand,” says Herman. “He killed your friend to send us a message- that he can reach any one of us anytime he wants. If we move and do it the right way, we take that away from him.”
“How do we know it’s even him? How do we know he killed Jenny?”
“We know. Trust us on this,” I tell her.
“Why can’t we go to the police? Aren’t they supposed to provide protection?” says Sarah.
“They gotta have evidence,” says Herman. “So far they got nothing linking Liquida to Jenny’s murder.”
“At least not yet,” I tell her. “We gave them his name and some other information. They’re going to investigate-”
“You mean they can’t provide protection?” says Sarah.
“They might send a patrol car by the house every few hours to keep an eye on us,” I tell her. “But that’s all.”
“And that ain’t gonna cut it,” says Herman. “Not with this guy. His game is to play with our minds. Man’s evil, but he’s got patience. He knows that sooner or later we’re gonna get tired, give it up, and go back to livin’ a normal life. That’s when he’ll hit. He’s toyin’ with us like a cat that has one of his claws in a mouse.”
“I should have taken Sarah and run,” I tell them. “The minute Thorpe told us about Liquida. Jenny would still be alive.”
“Maybe. But one of us’d be dead in her place,” says Herman.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Harry or me,” he says. “You gotta understand what you’re dealin’ with. Liquida’s a mental case. One sick son of a bitch. Excuse my language.” Herman glances toward Sarah, then looks at me. “If you run, it’s the way he’d bring you back, reach out and kill somebody close. It’s why I had you shut down the office.”
“You closed the law office?” says Sarah.
“Had to,” says Herman. “He killed Jenny, so what’s to think he won’t go after one of the secretaries? Can’t take the chance.”
Herman has managed to stay half a jump ahead of Liquida for the past few days. Otherwise, by now one of us would probably be dead. He is beginning to get a sense for the twisted mind that is shadowing us. Herman’s take is that Liquida probably hasn’t taken the time to tail any of our staff to their homes yet, because he thinks he has the four of us under glass, where we can’t move.
“So we sent everybody from the office home,” Herman explains to Sarah. “Told them to stay away from the office till they hear from us, and to take all the home addresses and other identifying information out of the office so
